Chapter Text
Three days before her eleventh birthday Nesta Archeron died.
Or at least, a version of her did. The one that was- relatively- carefree and able to be herself. The one that her father would lift onto the chair behind his desk and allow to read his ledgers. The one who already knew how to hold herself in perfect repose but did not yet know why. The one who had a sister clinging to each of her hands before they ever stepped foot onto a ballroom floor. The one who was allowed to spend day after day curled into the chair by the fireplace and reading until her eyes blurred.
The child died overnight, with blood between her thighs and staining her blankets.
In the morning the woman would be born. She would be taught every horrible thing her mother could cram into her. Molded into a shape so perfectly sharp and frigid it could be a frosted blade. She was forged into her mothers image, her grandmother's weapon, her fathers bargaining chip. She would be raised to rage behind a perfectly placid mask. One that would only shift into crueler form after the wrenching away of their fortune. She would grow like that, molded harsh and fired brittle.
And when she was twenty two she would die again.
The icy water bit into the soles of her feet. It was a kiss of venom, a death so permanent that every inch of her roared in defiance. She was going in—but she would not go gently. The water gripped her ankles with phantom talons, tugging her down. She twisted, wrenching her arm free from the guard who held it. And Nesta Archeron pointed. One finger—at the King of Hybern.
A death-promise.
A target marked.
Hands shoved her into the water’s waiting claws. Nesta laughed at the fear that crept into the king’s eyes just before the water devoured her whole. She laughed as she drowned. She laughed as she screamed and as she sobbed.
In the beginning
And in the end
There was Darkness
And nothing more
And when the light came…
It arrived violently.
She did not feel the cold as she sank into a sea that had no bottom, no horizon, no surface. But she felt the burning. Immortality was not a serene youth. It was fire. It was molten ore poured into her veins, boiling her human blood until it was nothing but steam, forging her brittle bones until they were fresh steel. And when she opened her mouth to scream, when the pain ripped her very self in two, there was no sound. There was nothing in this place but darkness and agony and power— They would pay. All of them.
Starting with this Cauldron. Starting now.
She tore into the darkness with talons and teeth. Rent and cleaved and shredded. And the dark eternity around her shuddered. Bucked. Thrashed. She laughed as it recoiled. Laughed around the mouthful of raw power she ripped out and swallowed whole; laughed at the fistfuls of eternity she shoved into her heart, her veins. The Cauldron struggled like a bird under a cat’s paw. She refused to relent. Everything it had stolen from her, from Elain, she would take from it. Wrapped in black eternity, Nesta and the Cauldron twined, burning through the darkness like a newborn star.
Nesta was reforged wrong. She knew it from the very first breath she took in this new wretched body. She knew it in the days that followed. While Elain was spiraling further and further into somnolent madness, Nesta made her own discoveries. This body barely needed to sleep. She could- and did- leap forward days at a time without resting her eyes once. It rarely needed to eat, and most things seemed to taste painfully overwhelming. It did not seem to menstruate. It did not prompt her to breathe if she was just sitting in one place.
Its skin was perfectly smooth and nearly slick. She spent a whole hour staring at the back of its hands and realizing that there were no creases or fine lines to its skin. And the give of the flesh was off, seemingly denser than it should be. Living porcelain molded into shape by something she still couldn’t bring herself to remember. Whatever had replaced her muscle makeup had been off the mark.
But time passed, as it always did. And war came, as it always did. And Nesta followed orders, as was- well as was actually remarkably out of character for her. What she did was this; she stared for a long moment at the writhing mass that was an army setting up after they left the Grayson estate in a flurry of fluster and poor feelings. She did not have a place here or back there. Not amongst this noise and this fear and the anxious energy of men that knew they would die. But in this foreign body did she belong anywhere else?
Elain trembled at her side but didn’t take her hand.
Another change. And one that might honestly be worse than any other. She could learn to tolerate this wretched existence. Nesta could ignore the squirming horrible power coiled in her chest. She could treat that male with the same disdain as any man who craved only her womb. She could even learn to fake happiness here if her sisters did. Or at least- she could fade from their lives until they thought she was happy. But she could not accept Elain not reaching for her hand when they were both so terribly frightened.
Nesta took Elain’s hand herself. The fingers caught in hers twitched and spasmed. The palm was sweaty. But Elain did not pull away today like she did some others. Instead she gripped tight and pressed their shoulders together. Feyre stood separate but still beside them, talking to that male. Nesta ignored the gaze she could feel flicking in her direction to watch the masses below them. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. The air already smelled like desperation. Bile and sweat and fear forming a physical wall of scent. Without turning away she asked a question that seemed to stop the breeze.
“How many of them will die?”
The silence rippled around them. From the corner of her eye Nesta could see Feyre’s face crease with upset. The male looking over her sister's shoulder seemed stone faced but his wings pinned tight across his back.
“So many that it will take the general three weeks to speak to each family,” Elain said quietly.
He flinched. Nesta clicked her tongue and stared at the dark blur below. The answer revealed more than she wanted it to. That the dead would count so high, that he spoke to the families, that there was a future where at least he survived the battle. Elain’s hand was limp in her grip.
“Come on, we have a tent made for you,” Feyre said softly.
Elain slipped out of her grip. Nesta’s hand was left holding air, frozen for a second too long before she turned as well. Feyre met her gaze with eyes that had once matched her own. Another thing stolen from her- their similarities. Even as children they had always looked more alike to each other than they did to Elain. And in some ways they still did.
Becoming Fae had made Feyre more beautiful. Her skin was smoother, fine lines and sun damage erased and a gentle glow emanating from her. The bump in her nose where it had once been broken was ground down. The scars from gnawing on her lips were replaced with smooth plumpness. The slight sideways lean to her gait from an ankle badly rolled vanished. She’d gained weight before joining night, and now her shoulders and arms carried lines of muscles that no human lady would be caught dead with.
Becoming this had made Nesta more beautiful. The harsh high angles of her face were overwhelming for a human but natural amongst these fell creatures. Her height was not a sighed at flaw, but within the new norm. Her hair was growing in thicker and stronger and the river-bed waves seemed reluctant to friz. When she settled in the body straining poses she had been taught she could hold them for minutes at a time. The beauty was a mask for the rot and no one seemed to look past it.
Nesta often heard whispers of how similar they looked from the Fae on the streets of Velaris. There were a few who wondered if they could possibly be twins. Something that seemed to be near worshiped in this world, as if they were a death sentence for many mortal women. The shape of their jaws, the pout of their lower lips, the sheen of their hair, even the angle of their brows. But where as their eyes- their mothers eyes- had once been a mid toned blue, now each shared a horrible new color. Feyre’s had warmed, the sweet eddying blue of the edge of the horizon. Nesta’s own had frozen over, glacial blue with threads of darker around the edges like fractured glass.
By contrast Elain’s hazel had darkened into a true tilled earth brown with flecks of reflecting gold.
The beauty hid the truth. That they were broken and awful and forced to become something new. Nesta survived being ripped apart and put back together wrong. She could weather the aggression- even if it meant she ripped Grayson’s rutting throat out with her teeth- but she wasn’t sure if she could contemplate immortality without turning into a gibbering mess. But the beings all around her were just as immortal, and soon so many would die that it would take weeks for their families to be told.
Nesta followed her sisters. Feyre wanted them in separate tents. Part of Nesta snarled at the idea but she did not let such a horrible noise escape her. Instead she ducked under the flap of the one that had been pointed out for her. It was small enough to be cramped, but whoever set it up had not skimped on luxury. She dragged her fingers through the thick ruff of fur that made up a rabbit skin blanket draped over a low cot. The pillow was genuine down. A thin and stained rug thrown over the grass.
A fucking tent on a war feild. It held more luxury and riches than they had in that whole cabin. Bought by her sister. Everything bought at the cost of Feyre’s freedom, from the blood money given to them in rose scented boxes to this. Feyre seemed happy with that violet eyed wretch but she had smiled dreamily for the Spring Lord too.
A mirror of polished bronze standing on a small table with legs carved like a cat's. She stared at everything, including a trunk with the lid propped open to reveal the color of at least two dresses within. After she had been made to wear pants to tolerate flying. Her teeth clenched tight enough to ache. Nesta turned back to tie the flap closed and peeled herself out of the form fitting leather. Sweat dripped down the back of her knees. She pulled the dress over her head and craned her elbows around her back to pull the laces tight.
A kirtle would have made more sense. Or even just a belted Alb. but this was gauzy linen, colored deep blue. Entirely inappropriate for the situation. But still, it was better than pants. She arranged the hem around her ankles. The scant two inches between the hem and the ground would be noticed and picked apart by humans. But these Fae blended the worst parts of her society into their own and called it progressive. She supposed a too short dress was the least of her problems anyway.
How many had to die that it took weeks to tell their families?
She knew that he would not slack off about it. The intensity in his gaze when talking about his people was one of the few good things she could list to his name. Nesta did not believe that he would allow their sacrifices to go unnoticed by the crime of being lazy. Her skin rippled with the knowledge that she could not pry out of her mind. They would die. Probably in the hundreds. That Illyrian army- whose wings she could hear rustling even within her tent. How many thousands gathered? Seven? Eight?
More?
How many were going to die?
She couldn’t stand still. Nesta couldn’t stand in this tent. She couldn’t hear the rustling of wings and shouts and smell the fear in the air and know that men were going to die without doing something. She just… didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing. It wasn’t like she was of any use in a fight, and she hadn’t been able to figure out what the hel Amren meant about dominating that stolen power. But she could… well she could surely do something. Even if it was just haul wood and water for whatever kind of healers the Illyrians brought with them.
She set her jaw and ripped the tie holding her tent closed away. Outside was cooler, wind kicking up as the night passed. Loose hairs slipped from the edge of her braid and tickled at her skin. Nesta shuddered and stepped further into the dark. A small quiet laugh reached her from Feyre’s tent. The golden tone was all Morigan. She bit down on the end of her tongue and moved past the noise without looking back. Nesta walked until she saw the light grey colored aprons of a healing woman. She recognized the color from what Madja had worn.
A book she’d found in the library called the color sacred to the winged warriors. Not their Holy Crimson, but a canvas meant to be stained in blood. She marched to the woman and stopped right on the edge of what she would call personal space. Even then it took a tense three breaths for the woman to look up. She seemed middle aged, not that it was easy to tell with them. She stared at Nesta for another few seconds before grunting.
“I want to help.” Nesta bit out.
One dark brow raised, “help what?” the woman rasped.
“Whatever you need.” Her lip curled over her teeth but she still managed to grit her next sentence out, “I have no skills to truly help you. But I want to. Haul water, mind fires, just tell me what to do.”
Her eyes- pitch in the low light- narrowed, “high fae do not help here. The Lady less so.”
“Feyre is my sister. Tell me how to help you or point me to someone who will.” she demanded.
The woman's wings pinned together. The bone protrusions at their apex touched just over the crown of her head. Nesta had seen the same move in the Courts Illyrians. It usually seemed to mean that they were pissed or unsure. Her tongue hurt from how hard she bit into its surface. But Nesta had been stared down by much worse than a single Illyrian Healer. So she just lifted her chin slightly and waited.
“Follow,” the woman ordered.
No other words were shared. Nesta followed her deeper into the Illyrian encampment. The males within watched her passage in rippling silence. She did not cower. She did not even look at them until they were at the corners of her vision. But she felt the physical weight of their stares. Until the woman led her to another tent. This one was even larger than Feyre’s. But once they were inside she realized why.
It was the sick tent.
Already twenty beds were placed in neat rows of five. They were simple things of slatted reeds with a sheet laid over them but they were there and ready. Beside each was a small basket. About half of them had cloth piled high within. The woman pointed to the side. There was an open trunk of cloth waiting.
“Tear all of this into bandages about this big,” the woman made quick gestures of the size she wanted, “and place them by the beds. Do that and we will decide if you are more help elsewhere.”
And with that she was gone. Nesta blinked twice into the empty space. Was that how other people felt when she just swept away from them in the middle of a pointless conversation? She was still going to do it, but now she might have a giggle about it too. She shook her head once and looked down at the fabric. There was a small stool by the trunk, and a little pair of shears. Clearly whoever had been doing the work had been called away from something else. She nodded to herself and took a seat before picking up the first length of fabric.
Whatever had replaced her muscle makeup had been off the mark. Nesta could dent metal, let alone rip cloth into strips. But still, every tearing sound was steady and careful. She watched the fibers separate with eyes that once tracked dance steps and could now count the feathers on a hawk. When the woman came back to stand beside her for a few seconds she did not look up. Until there was a click of a tongue and more fabric being thudded down at her side.
“When you’re done with those, start these.”
The order was sharp, harsh. The kind of thing that would normally make Nesta bristle and rage. But they were paired with the dropping of a basket of cloth and the turn of a skirt before the offense could form. Nesta dropped the torn bandage she held and pulled the next cloth from the basket. Absently she dragged her thumb over the give of the weave. Fairly loose, with noticeable slub along the fibers. In her old life it wouldn’t be worth buying. Now it was more than its weight in gold.
Every bandage, every rag, every thread. What she did now was not what her sister did hours ago. Nesta did not walk onto a battlefield with soldiers and delude herself that a few months of training made her one of them. She did not pretend that the stolen power crafting her bones into folded steel could be useful in a war she did not fully understand. But she could do this much. And hours later when she was out of fabric to tear she split it all up and carried it to the beds.
Those baskets were filled but she still had more left over. Nesta gathered the remaining into the smaller basket she had been brought and set it onto the long and tall table set against the back wall of the tent. For a long moment she stared at the tools already laid out there. Scissors and needles and tweezers and what looked disturbingly like a flexible chain with blades on it. The realities of war seemed closer looking at the tools than it did seeing the soldiers. Even after the fighting there would be work to do.
Horrible work, full of screaming and swearing and the risk of death.
For a horrible second Nesta pictured herself in the middle of it. The tent full of women rushing to and fro, the beds holding what to her mind's eye were boys who cried silently. She pictured herself holding down a bawling boy who called out for his mother while his leg was cut away. She saw her sleeves torn off at the shoulders to make way for the dark blood painting her skin. She saw the boy going limp as he lost the fight with consciousness. And she saw herself leaning over to press a kiss to his lax brow.
She was going to be here.
Tomorrow or another day. She was going to be in this tent. Even if it was just for the strength of her arms and her stomach. She was going to be here while boys and men begged for help. And she was going to help them. Her stomach rolled and her mouth tasted like bile. But she set her shoulders and nodded to the empty air. She had made up her mind and would not be dissuaded. She was going to be here, and she was going to help, and damn anyone that stood in her way.
So Nesta Archeron was reborn in an Illyrian sick tent, finally in a shape that was hers and hers alone.